A New Creation
by MrsTater
Summary: When Rapunzel can't find inspiration in her new life as a princess, Eugene helps her see the art she never even realized she made.


**_A/N: __Written for the 2011 April Showers Drabblethon at the Day_by_Drabble LJ community._**

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><p><strong>A New Creation<br>**

"How's it coming, Blondie?" I ask, poking my head around the doorframe of Rapunzel's art studio.

Personally, I don't think the King and Queen were really using the royal noggins when they designated a room in one of the turrets for their long-lost daughter's personal use. I mean, turret, tower-not all that different, with the obvious exception of the turret having a door and stairs and a distinct lack of old crone posing as psychologically abusive mother. But the room is spacious and lets in a lot of light, which Rapunzel insists is a painter's most valuable tool, so I keep my mouth shut about the weirdness of her volunteering to hang out in a space eerily like the one where she was imprisoned for her whole life.

Anyway, maybe it's a security thing. Admittedly I don't know much about the psychology of former captives, but having a whole castle to stretch out in after being confined to one room would be pretty-

Oh, who am I trying to kid? It would be pretty freaking _awesome_.

But back to Rapunzel, who, uncharacteristically, hasn't peeked out from behind her canvas to smile and say hello to me. Actually, she _characteristically_ doesn't do that, either; it's more that she vaults from behind her canvas and flies into my arms, engaging her lips in other, more preferable forms of greeting than smiles and hellos. And suddenly I'm racking my brain for memories of any miniscule thing I might have done _not_ to deserve the customary Rapunzel greeting.

"You know, Eugene, you really shouldn't keep calling me Blondie," she says, her voice heavy with melancholy.

"I know, but 'Brunettie' just doesn't roll off the tongue the way Blondie does."

I venture a few steps further into the room, but stop again, wondering, for the first time, if my continued use of the nickname makes Rapunzel sad. Women are funny that way-you tell them you have a thing for brunettes, and they still can't shake the idea that blondes have more fun. Even when you've shown them a pretty darn good time, if you do say so yourself.

Still, even if Rapunzel is making much hairdo about nothing, the last thing I want is to remind her of yet another thing Gothel stole from her. (We'll ignore the annoying little detail that it was me who cut off those luscious yellow locks.)

"What about Brownie?" she asks, one bright green eye and half a small smile emerging from behind the canvas. "That kind of rolls off the tongue."

Reasonably sure that I'm neither the problem nor have made her sad by referring to her natural hair color, I cross the room to her and lean lightly against her easel. "Now why would I let a brownie roll off my tongue? They're so chocolaty and delicious."

Rapunzel giggles. "You know, I invented a pretty amazing brownie recipe."

"Uh..and why am I only just now finding out about this?"

The glimmer of happiness dissolves from Rapunzel's expression with her sigh. "Because they won't let me go near the kitchens."

"They?" I ask. "The King and Queen? Your parents?"

"The cook. She says it's unseemly for the Princess to be in the kitchen with the scullery maids, and that all I have to do is say the word, and the kitchen staff will bake me any treat my royal stomach desires. I couldn't make her understand that I just _love_ baking."

That's the thing I'll never get about the class system. What good is it to be royalty if it doesn't mean you can do whatever you darn well please?

"Maybe the cook's a visual learner," I say. "You could do her a painting of you baking me up a big pan of your amazing brownies-"

Another heavy sigh cuts me off, and now there's no mistaking the sadness in those big green eyes of hers before they drop to her hands, which are crumpling her dress in her lap.

"Hey," I say, taking my arm off the top of her canvas and touching her chin to tilt her face up toward mine. "What's this all about?"

She gestures to her canvas, and for the first time I see that it's completely blank.

"You've been in here all day," I say. "Painter's block?"

"Not all day, all _month_," Rapunzel corrects, shrinking back from my touch. She gets up and plods over to the windows, and my heart wrenches in my chest as I think how much she looks like that lonely girl in her tower. "I haven't painted one stroke since the King and Queen…since Father and Mother gave me my studio. I don't know what's wrong with me, Eugene! My whole life used to be about making things, creating…Now I don't do anything."

"That's not true," I tell her. I'm about to go on to say that she may not have painted a picture or baked a brownie since she left her tower, but she's made a new man out of me, but then she turns around and looks so sad and needy and hopeful and beautiful that my mouth feels like I've got a big bite of peanut butter sandwich in it and all I can think is how cheesy and lame and not Flynn Rider a line like that would be.

Which is pretty much the whole point.

So I hold out my arms, and she comes to me so willingly that she knocks the wind out of me, and when I'm done coughing, I tell her.

When I've said it, she hugs me tighter, then _at last_ looks up at me with the smile I came up here to see.

"Come on," she says, grabbing my hand. "I don't care what the cook says, I'm the Princess, and I'm going to bake you the best brownies you ever tasted!"

"Careful, Blondie," I say, allowing her to tug me down to the kitchens, "or you'll make _two_ new men out of me."


End file.
